Potential
by Maddy77
Summary: You can't outrun your destiny. Set post-Buffy season seven.


Blood. Sweat. Adrenaline. Pain...

My legs burn as I run. I'm giving it all I have; every inch of my body aches from the exertion. My hair is flying in my face, stinging my eyes and plastering itself to my forehead and cheeks. I briefly think that it'll be a pain to brush out, until I realize that I probably won't survive long enough to get home.

He's catching up.

I see a fence just ahead. I know I can jump it. Maybe that will give me the distance I need to beat him. My sneakers hit the ground like pistons and I brace myself for the jump. It's getting closer. So is he. My heart is in my throat and I hope that I time the jump just right: if I don't, I'm dead. I probably am anyway, but if I make the jump, I might have a chance...

Or at least I'll give myself a longer run.

The chain links of the fence are looming ahead like a prison wall. It'll either mean death or a chance at survival. I plant my feet firmly on the ground and jump--I end up three quarters of the way up the fence. I climb the rest of the way, then leap down. He didn't catch me as I climbed...maybe he can't jump it.

No such luck.

I hear his footsteps behind me. His boots are heavy, but he makes really good time. He's so fast. We'll find out whether or not he's faster than me when we see who gets back to my apartment first. I'm not sure how much longer I can hold out, though--I've been running for almost fifteen minutes. Why hasn't he stopped? Isn't he tired? Why haven't _I _stopped?

Well, other than the whole running-for-my-life thing.

I hear him shout behind me. Maybe he's getting frustrated. Maybe he'll give up. I risk a look behind me; no, he's still running hard. I'm glad I wore my good sneakers. I think I can go on for a little bit. I wish I'd worn something more than my jean shorts, though. I'm a little chilly. My grey zipper hoodie keeps my upper body warm, but my running is all that keeps my legs warm.

He's catching up again.

I'm not looking where I'm running anymore. I have my eyes closed half the time. I'm hoping that I'll wake up in my bed, my pajamas will be soaked with sweat and I'll be panting, but I won't be trying to escape a psycho who wants me dead. I open my eyes enough to not run into a wall...

But not enough to avoid a dead-end.

I run into the wall at the end of the alley with my hands, gasping for breath. This is it. If I turn around, I'll just run into him. This way, at least I'll be able to prepare myself for the event. I brace myself, falling into a defensive stance, my fists raised. My heart is thudding against my ribcage; I can feel it more than I ever have before. My adrenaline is pumping, and I'm having trouble breathing. It feels like something's lodged in my throat. Suddenly the night is very cold. It's like all the warmth drained out of my body, and I'm left with nothing but the thin air. I feel salty tears stinging my eyes, but I fight them off. I can't start crying. If I'm going to go, I don't want to go crying.

Here he is.

He steps out of the shadows. He's not even breathing hard. His hair is peroxide-white, his skin is pale, and he's wearing a long, black leather duster. He's lit a cigarette. He takes a deep breath of the cancer stick and walks up to me. He's taking his time. Playing with me. My fear doesn't recede at all, but some anger joins it. Who does he think he is? If he's going to kill me, he should just _do_ it. Just do it!

"Just do it!"

I can't believe that I'd actually said that. He raises his eyebrows, flicks his cigarette away, and approaches. I flinch, then decide that if I'm going down, he's coming with me. With a burst of energy and strength I lunge at him, knocking him to the ground. He grunts, but meets me in combat.

He's good.

I nail him with a right hook, which he rolls with expertly. He shoves his fist into my stomach, and I buckle. He socks me in the chin, and I knee him in the side. I can't believe what I'm doing. I'm actually fighting with this guy. I don't know who he is, what he's doing, or if he's just messing with me before he really lets me have it. He catches me in the temple. I reel from the pain, and discover what people mean when they talk about "seeing stars". I grip my head. He stands, steps back, and waits for me. What's he doing? Why isn't he taking the opportunity to take me out? I rise, hesitant. I'm not going to make the first move.

He has no such reservations.

He attacks, throwing me to the ground. I catch him pretty good with some punches, and, if nothing else, he'll be black and blue by morning. Which it must almost be by now. I catch a look at the sky--no luck, I have a couple of hours to fend him off before anybody saw us.

We fought for a long time.

We're pretty evenly matched, but I'm tired. I'm _really_ tired. I've been running for my life, whereas he's been chasing--not as stressful. Then the fighting. Then the fear. I can't keep it up forever. Eventually I just lose it. I stop, leaning back onto the pavement, which is a little slick. We'd both bled. So I just stop--stop fighting, stop moving, stop everything. He's on top of me. He looks down at me, a little puzzled. Then he stands up, shrugs, and offers me his hand.

"Well, good job anyway, pet, but you can't just go limp like that."

I take the hand shakily. What's he playing at? He helps me to my feet, and looks at my legs, my torn jacket, my bloody and bruised face. It's like he's appraising me. Finally he nods. "You'll do."

"I'll do for _what_?"

He laughs, and it's surprisingly pleasant. Looking at him, he's pretty handsome, despite his own bruises and bloodiness. He reaches into his duster and pulls out some bandages. I have a pretty big gash across my right shin, which he proceeds to wrap. I'm confused, but don't argue. He puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me off. "Have you ever heard of the Slayer?"...


End file.
